


How rare and beautiful it is to even exist

by tuntekorpp



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Because of Reasons, Canon Compliant, Christmas, F/M, Fluff and Angst, POV Karen Page, Post-Canon, also a pit bull, curtis hoyle - mention, flowers and letters, foggy nelson - mention, it's late for christmas but whatever, jessica jones - mention, matt murdock - mention, mitchell ellison - mention, post the defenders, trish walker - mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 14:36:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13192164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuntekorpp/pseuds/tuntekorpp
Summary: Karen doesn't know what to expect after the whole hotel shitshow.She thinks maybe he'll find a way to contact her, let her know he's still alive despite the deep gash above his ear, the shard of metal sticking out of his arm, the blood running down his face, the look of utter exhaustion he had in his eyes the last time she saw him.Maybe he didn't manage to escape and they took him down and tomorrow she'll wake up to the news that the big bad Punisher is in custody. Or dead.Maybe he managed to escape, only to bleed out in a back alley and there will be no news.





	How rare and beautiful it is to even exist

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the song "Saturn" by Sleeping At Last.  
> Actually I've written this one-shot with their album "Atlas: Space (Deluxe)" in repeat and you should listen to it while reading for maximum feels.

 

 

Karen doesn't know what to expect after the whole hotel shitshow.

She thinks maybe he'll find a way to contact her, let her know he's still alive despite the deep gash above his ear, the shard of metal sticking out of his arm, the blood running down his face, the look of utter exhaustion he had in his eyes the last time she saw him.

Maybe he didn't manage to escape and they took him down and tomorrow she'll wake up to the news that the big bad Punisher is in custody. Or dead.

Maybe he managed to escape, only to bleed out in a back alley and there will be no news.

 

She comes home and showers. The cuts on her forehead sting but she stays under the too hot water, trying to scrub away the memory of having Lewis' bomb detonator against her ribs. She focuses instead on the memory of Frank's face when he was talking to the kid, distracting him with his voice but directing her with his eyes toward the right wire to tear out from the deadman switch.

 

That night, she makes sure the potted flowers he brought her are on the windowsill. If he's alive, he no doubts has a ton of other shit to do rather than coming to see her, but she at least wants him to know he didn't freak her out.

If he's alive.

 

There's no news of a captured or dead Punisher in the morning. Ellison calls to tell her to stay at home. She protests, arguing that she needs to keep her mind busy.

“Go be with your friends and family, Page. You almost died,” he says and hangs up just after.

She manages not to smash her phone against the wall. Barely. She wants to laugh at her boss. Friends and family? What a joke. She hasn't had a family since she left Vermont. Matt is dead. Foggy practically lives in his office at Hogarth Chao and Benowitz.

She briefly thinks about Trish and how their burgeoning friendship is the only positive thing that came out of the whole Midland Circle debacle. Except for stopping an evil ancient organization from destroying the city. But that thing with Trish is still too new, too fresh for Karen to go have a coffee with her and tell her she's on leave because she was in a hotel bombing and hostage situation and saved by Frank Castle who's actually not dead nor a dangerous psychopath but actually more of a really rough bodyguard. At least to her.

 

She waters the flowers and turns on the TV on the news channel.

She's drinking her fifth mug of coffee, staring at the images of the hotel on the TV screen for what feels like the hundredth time, when her phone vibrates on the coffee table in front of her. A single text, from an unknown number.

 

_Our mutual friend is alive and patched up._

 

She can guess who the sender might be, after all, she's the one who helped Frank find him. Micro, Liebermann, David, whatever it is he prefers to be called at the moment. She exhales a long sigh of relief.

Not captured. Not dead. Not dying behind a dumpster. Alive and patched up, with someone to have his back.

She types a reply.

 

_Take care. Both of you._

 

She doesn't expect another text. By now, Micro must have taken the battery and the sim card out of the phone and destroyed both; or even destroyed the entire phone.

 

She keeps the flowers next to the window. Frank's war isn't over and who knows when it will be, but she still wants him to know she's here for him. She spends the afternoon on the bench by the water and she tells herself she's not waiting for him. She just needs to be out of her apartment.

 

She goes back to work after two days. She sees the worried glances thrown her way by her colleagues. She hears the whispers that follow her. She brushes Ellison's concern with a flick of the hand, a glare and asks for an assignment.

 

She turns the flowers everyday. “So every angle gets their fair share of sunlight”, she says to herself. So it doesn't look like she put them here and forgot them. She has no clue how Frank kept an eye on the flowers before shit went down at the hotel and she doesn't know how he does it now, if he still does. She can't picture him walking in front of her apartment building every day, dodging curious glances and security cameras with a baseball cap and a hoodie.

She still goes for walks by the water.

 

A few days after the hotel, there're noises about a gunfire at a carousel in Central Park. Officially, it's a drug deal gone wrong. But it's not just any carousel: it's the carousel where Frank and his family were shot down a bit more than two years ago. It can't just be a coincidence, not when the identities of the perps aren't revealed, not when two of the employees of the food stand nearby are impossible to interview, not when there's a rumor of a Homeland Security agent involved and injured.

 

She tugs on every lead she can find, however thin it is. She needs to know if it's finally over. And if he made it out.

Nothing pans out.

No one mentions the Punisher or Frank Castle.

It's like he never existed.

 

She keeps watering the flowers and turning them everyday. She keeps taking walks by the water. She goes for coffee with Trish; sometimes Jessica is there too and Karen will never not be amused by the PI's own brand of sarcasm and her pretending to not give a fuck about anything.

She manages to see Foggy. He talks about his job and his love for it, about Marci and their strange but happy relationship. He asks if she's okay, after... well, there's a lot of things contained in that after. After the end of Nelson and Murdock, after Matt and Elektra, after Matt's death, after Frank being alive, after the threats, after the bomb, after being taken hostage. Foggy doesn't know about Wesley, nobody knows, and she's not sure it changes anything, if she'd count him in at all.

 

She's fine. She's not lonely. And if Jess snorts in her whisky when she says it out loud, well, it's Jess's problem. She pours herself another glass and repeats that really she's not. Jess rolls her eyes and has a silent conversation with Trish. Malcolm tries to be supportive of her which just makes Jess snorts louder.

She's hungover the next morning. Ellison raises a questioning eyebrow at her and she says she was out drinking with some friends. Weirdly enough, he seems happy to know she was getting shit-faced on a weeknight, because it means she doesn't stay holed up in her apartment like a modern-era hermit.

 

It's been two weeks since the carousel shooting.

Two weeks where she all but buried herself in work, emerging only to keep a semblance of social life and taking care of the flowers on her windowsill. They're starting to die, too fragile to resist the cold coming with the beginning of December.

It's been two weeks since the carousel shooting when there's a knock at her door. She takes her gun out of her purse and glances through the peephole. She recognizes a flower shop logo on the baseball cap sitting on top of an unknown teenager head. She puts her gun back in her bag and opens the door.

“Hi”, the kid greets her, “you Karen Page? Got a delivery for you.”

He hands her a basket, wishes her a good day and disappears in the staircase. She puts the basket on her coffee table. There's a white potted flower inside, with a card indicating the name of the plant, a white amaryllis, along with care instructions. She takes the pot carefully to move it to her kitchen table. A beige envelope is resting at the bottom of the basket and her heartbeats quicken.

She knows who sent her the plant. There's only one person who ever gave her flowers. She just fears what the note in the envelope might say. It could be a goodbye. If he's a free man and his war is over, he has no reason to stay in New York. If he's held by Homeland Security, she might not be able to see him ever again. Maybe they're sending him in WitSec, and no one from his old life can ever know anything about his whereabouts.

 

She takes the envelope with trembling hands, takes a deep breath and opens it. Inside there's no short note on a card, but several sheets of paper.

 

_The amaryllis might survive the winter better than the roses. Or so they said at the shop._

 

A teary, wet laugh bubbles out of her. He's seen the flowers on the windowsill. He's out there. He's sorry for not being able to reach out earlier, there was so much shit to deal with. He slept a lot, trying to make up for all the sleep lost in the last few years. He's going to a vet support group led by one of his old brother-in-arms, Curtis. Curtis is one of the reasons he's still alive today he writes. He needs to find who he is without the fight, the vengeance, the anger that fueled him before. He has a new name, courtesy of Madani being grateful he saved her life at the carousel. He's working on a construction site because he needs to pay a rent and he's not gunning down shitbags and taking their dirty money anymore.

He needs time but if she lets him, he'd like to have her in his after.

 

By the time she reaches the end of the letter, she's crying and smiling, a hand over her mouth. He finishes with a PO box address and signs with a single “F”.

She takes a deep breath and for the first time in months, she feels like she can actually breathe without fearing for the world to crumble on her. She's still shaking and her eyes are wet, but she's relieved. He's alive. He's free. He's starting a new life. He wants to see her.

She stands up, goes to the kitchen. She pushes her hair away from her face, eyes running along her counters and cabinets. She finally settles on making a fresh pot of coffee, willing her hands to still and her heart rate to slow down.

 

She alternates between chewing on the end of her ballpoint pen and sipping her too-hot coffee. Starting the letter with “Dear Frank” feels too stuffy, too formal. Not _them_. “Frank” is too cold, distant, impersonal. “Hi” or “Hello” are just plain wrong after the letter he sent her.

She's aware of the irony of being one of New York's top investigative journalists and having a writer's block because she doesn't know how to start a letter to a friend. Because that's what he is, a friend.

She re-reads his letter and decides to start off in a similar fashion as he did.

 

_The amaryllis seems indeed more robust than the roses, even if they put up a brave fight against the cold._

 

Her letter isn't as long as his. When she posts it, she feels light, hopeful for the first time in a long time. The future is still a one day after the other kind of deal, but it doesn't look like it's gonna be an endless circle of empty places, loneliness and work to the point of exhaustion anymore.

 

Ellison says she looks healthier when he comes into her office later that day. She shrugs but smiles anyway and asks for the corrections he wants her to do on her latest piece. She doesn't need him to poke and prod at her.

 

If the letters vary in length, they always arrive every two days, like clockwork. Sometimes they're light, humorous even. Sometimes they're not and she wishes she had his actual address so she could go see him in the flesh and be there for him when he has a bad day.

He adopts a dog from a shelter. A young pit bull that no one wants because they think it's a killing machine. He talks a lot about the dog, how it gives him a purpose, how sometimes he's terrified of being responsible for a living being again.

She hasn't killed the amaryllis yet and he congratulates her. He liked her last piece in _The Bulletin_.

He asks about her end of the year plans. She snorts when she reads that part. What plans. She's probably going to drink with Trish, Jess and Malcolm. He asks about Foggy and Red and apologizes when she writes about Midland Circle. Well it's not like he was keeping tabs on what was happening outside of his war, she thinks.

 

It's two days before Christmas and she's staring at the pile of letters he sent her over the past three weeks. She's supposed to be writing her answer but the only thing she can think of how much she wants to see him and talk to him face to face.

Sure, letters are nice, letters are _great_ and they give you time to really think what you want to say over, choose the right words, avoid awkward silences and stuttering, but she wants to be next to him and hear his gravel voice and hug him like she did when he came back into her life and make sure with her own two eyes that he's safe and healthy and whole.

 

_I want to see you._

 

Her hands are shaking when she posts the feather light envelope, but it's snowing, and she tells herself it's the cold. Not the fear of rushing him and making him shut down, ruining everything they've built with ink and paper.

 

She picks up some of her colleagues' workload so the ones with actual plans involving loved ones can leave early on the 24th. They're grateful and she also can see pity in their eyes. She smiles and waves them off and ignores Ellison's frown.

“You don't have to do that, you know,” he says halfway through her office door.

She shrugs. “I know. I want to. They deserve a proper break.”

Ellison snorts. “And you don't?”

She glares at him and tells him not to paint her a martyr, thank you very much, and it makes her think of Matt.

 

_I'm sorry Red had to be a goddamn martyr._

 

She can almost hear his gruff voice, the way he's respectfully saying that no offense but Red was an idiot. She can't argue with that.

She wraps up later than she thought she would and sends a text to Trish to warn her she won't make it. She's mentally reviewing the content of her fridge and beside beers and a jar of mayo opened for too long, she doesn't remember anything else. Good thing there are take out places opened all year round not far from her apartment building.

 

She climbs up her stairs heavily, tired of trudging through the snowed-in sidewalks and the too-bright too-festive spirit clogging the streets.

There's someone sitting down against the wall next to her door, with the hood of their jacket over their face. She freezes for a fraction of second before reaching in her purse. Call her paranoid, but she doesn't have the best track record. The person raises their head and she recognizes the distinct broken boxer nose in the dim light of her hallway.

“Merry Christmas, Karen,” he says with a tiny smile.

And oh, how she missed his voice. She wants to say something but the words are stuck in her throat. He turns more fully to her and she can see more than just shadows over his angular traits and he looks good. Healthy. There's no bruises, no black eye, no scraps. Next to him, a little ball of fur gets on its paws and barrels into her legs. Frank swears under his breath but she laughs and squats down to pet the puppy who flops down on its back.

“I think she adopted you,” she hears Frank say. She turns to him, one hand on the pit bull belly. He gets up and walks down to her.

She finally manages to find her voice. “You never told me her name.”

“Saturn,” he says. “Didn't choose it, it was the name they gave her at the shelter,” he adds when she quirks an eyebrow.

She nods and turns back to Saturn who's practically falling asleep from the petting. Her hair falls in front of her, shielding her from Frank's intense stare. She's ridiculous. She's the one who said she wanted to see him and now that he's here, a few feet from her, she can't muster up the courage to stand up and look at him in the eyes.

 

She breathes deeply and tells herself she's not going to cry. Not right now anyway. Her hand leaves the grey-blue fur and she stands up despite the adorable puppy whines. She looks up and he's here, observing her without a word, and she smiles.

“Hey,” she says with a trembling voice, still keeping the tears at bay. “I'm glad you're here.”

She walks towards him, put a timid hand on his forearm when she reaches his level. The hesitation only lasts a few seconds before he pulls her in a hug and he's solid against her, a hand in her hair, her face in his neck and she doesn't want to ever let go.

 

Saturn starts to nip at his boots and they disentangle from each other with a laugh. His eyes are glassy. She sniffles and goes to unlock her door. He grabs a backpack from the floor, whistles at the dog and follows her inside.

“I don't have any food,” she says, throwing her keys in the bowl on her coffee table and dropping her purse on the floor. “I was supposed to get drunk with Trish and Jess.”

He shifts on his feet. “Bad time then?” he asks, and if she didn't know better, she'd say he sounds shy.

She shakes her head. “Told them I wasn't gonna make it when I got out of the office.”

His shoulders relax then, and some tension leaves his face. She goes to the kitchen to grab the take-out menus.

“Beer?” she asks, already reaching into the fridge.

“Yeah,” he answers, much closer than what she expects. He's leaning against the island, not even three feet from her. She holds the bottle out to him. He takes it, puts it down on the counter and pulls her to him, leaning his forehead against hers. There's no blood, no gunshot, no shrapnel this time.

“I'm glad you sent me that letter,” he says, closing his eyes. “I'd have never had the courage to come see you.”

“Afraid I was gonna shoot your head off?” she says but she doesn't quite manage to hit the light and humorous tone she was aiming for.

“Something like that.”

She reaches up to his head, above his ear. His hair is longer and the gash is healing but she knows it's here. Along with the rest of the scars. He leans into her touch.

“Are you okay?” she asks in a whisper.

He nods. “Are you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

She breathes against his chest, his arms around her and his head against hers. He's here. He's real. He's fine.

He drops a kiss to her forehead and releases her from his embrace.

“C'mon, let's order that Christmas food.”

He grabs the menus and their beers with one hand and takes hers with the other one, leading her to the couch. She tucks herself against his side and Saturn jumps on the couch to cuddle against her legs.

 

They order Indian food and watch Die Hard and when she asks who would win a fight between him and John McLane, he honest to god chuckles.

“I wouldn't fight him, he's one of the good ones. He could learn a few things tho.”

 

She's falling asleep against his shoulder. She's warm and comfortable, but he starts to move from under her.

“Hmmno...” she groans. “Stay. Please.”

He caresses her hair and tucks a pillow under her to make up for his absence.

“I'm just putting the leftovers in the fridge.”

She nods sleepily. Saturn changes her position on her legs.

 

When she wakes up, she's in her bed but her bedroom door is open and she can see him sleeping on the couch, Saturn on his chest. She smiles because really, what else can she do?

She gets up to make coffee. As soon as her feet touch the ground, his eyes flutter open before closing again. She crosses the living room to the kitchen and start preparing her coffee pot, letting him wake up at his own rhythm.

She brings the two mugs to the living room and sits down on the coffee table next to him.

“Merry Christmas, Frank.”

He looks up at her and smiles. He tries to sit up but Saturn is still very firmly asleep on top of him. He flops down in defeat. He could totally push Saturn off of him, it's not like she's an adult pit bull of 30 pounds, but he's whipped and he'd probably beat himself up if he were to wake up his sleeping dog.

She puts the mugs on the table and takes the puppy in her arms. Saturn doesn't even blink. He sits up, the blanket pooling around his hips, takes back Saturn from her and sets her down on his lap.

She gives him his mug of coffee with an eyeroll and joins him on the couch. He puts his arm around her shoulders and pulls her to him, dropping a kiss to her temple. She slips her legs under the blanket and together they watch Saturn sleeps.

 

It feels like an after.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I know I'm late for the Christmas themed fics but I couldn't resist some Christmas fluff because those two deserve it. 
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


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